Eying the straight jeans tucked into the boots, the long sweaters, the dolman sleeves, the platform shoes and disco ball I recently saw in a store, I knew the sales woman, who looked 25, had no idea of what life was like here in New York City in the late 70’s and 80’s. A young taxi driver treated me like royalty because I told him I had seen “Queen” in concert, and I just couldn’t bring myself to rattle off all the rock concerts I had been to-or tell him that later, I had spent every Friday night dancing at the clubs: Studio 54, Xenon, Ice Palace. I have happy memories of my girlfriend and I prepping and primping for Friday night, THE night, OUR night. It took days to figure out what we would wear, to find the perfect belt, shoes, or to figure out what we were doing with our hair; we bought Paul Mitchell “SCHPRITZ” (which was really glue in a plastic pump pray bottle) by the gallon, so we could go dancing.
When I approach the step climber in the gym, my iPod is my master and Donna Summer ‘s ” Enough is Enough” is still enough to get the blood pumping through me… If you see me up there, swaying and rotating with moves that would defy the average person’s (of my age) balance… I promise I will not fall. I can dance, step, and read at the same time.
In the early 80’s I was an aerobics flunkie, and I am no runner– I am more like a pile driver when I do run…. I even tried pole dancing –but I was like Lucille Ball on pot when I approached the pole, gracefully reached up, hoisted myself onto it, and promptly fell, bruising my arm and leg on the way down. I am, to say the least bored by walking on a loop, so the treadmill is not for me. Forget spinning to nowhere… no can do. But when I am “stepping” that low center of gravity is, very useful. Some mornings I can be found in the gym, quite early, gyrating on the machine, reading glasses perched on my nose and a day’s worth of e-mail, trade papers and other stuff to pour through piled up on the floor next to me. Throwing the papers down from my lofty mount I make piles of the must keeps, and the disposable. Along with everything that floods my morning mind, it never occurs to me to care what anyone who sees this routine might think. I occasionally let loose the sounds of pieces of songs, and have provoked a few “SHUT UPS” from my fellow exercisers. But I don’t care. I am not embarrassed.
Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and think it is really pathetic or funny or maybe both, as I hope for one more year of my butt defying gravity and notice that my arms still look pretty good to me considering I am a Jewish woman of a certain age. I can’t afford to do what Demi Moore did –I am stuck with my elbows and knees for a lifetime.
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